The Watchers (19 page)
“I checked into that,” said Paula, “but it turns out we'll attract less attention coming straight into the private aviation sector of the national airport. Believe me, there're enough luxury jets in Lagos to match any strip in Aspen or Geneva. No one will even notice us.”
“Better strap in,” Lloyd warned Abby.
“Can I do that while I'm still lying down?” she asked in a frail voice. “All of a sudden I don't feel so great.”
“Is it the pain?” Paula asked.
Abby nodded in the affirmative, holding her side and wincing. “First the Sight, now this pain. Something about reaching Nigeria doesn't seem to agree with me.”
The last word of her sentence went largely unheard, because at that instant the entire cabin jerked forward and downward at a precipitous angle. Instead of response, all Abby received for her words were her companions' respective groans.
LAGOS, NIGERIA, MURTULA MOHAMMED INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
At most of the world's other commercial airports, the Gulfstream's final approach would have provoked immediate alarm and even specific countermeasures. At a contemporary American airport, for instance, its dramatic plunge from a blue sky would have sparked several moments of heated speculation over whether the craft had been commandeered by hostile parties and possibly a frenzied warning to Homeland Security. The pilots would have been sharply queried over radio as to the meaning of their actions. At the very least, it would have earned them a warning from the FAA and a likely reprimand from their employers.
At Lagos Tower, however, the maneuver was nearly routine. On any given day, there might be a dozen reasons why a wealthy Nigerian's airplane might attempt to evade potential hostile fire by shortening its final approach. They ranged from reprisals of a political, financial or even ethnic nature, to specific kidnapping or blackmail threats, to seething discontent among the earthbound class. Nowhere on the planet festered such a gigantic gap between the corrupt and wealthyâwho collectively siphoned off enough oil from the world's fourth-largest petroleum producer to match the wealth of Bill Gates every single dayâand a starving, teeming underbelly. That resulted in plenty of reasons for the incoming jet-set to be careful, and plenty of ready pretexts for attacking them.
Inside the jet registered to Mara McQueen, however, the maneuver had one overriding effect on its most important passenger. Strapped in tight to a leather divan, Abby was pitched forward into an optimal position from which to view the Lagos panorama at a most acute angle. Even as she gripped the nearest arm with white knuckles and strained audibly to keep herself upright, she found her eyes riveted on the sight reeling outside the portholes beyond her perch.
“If you're seeing more visions, please, just close your eyes!” offered Paula.
“No, it's not
that
at the moment,” she answered. “The Sight seems to have dissipated for a second. I'm just looking at the city!”
Paula followed Abby's gaze out a nearby window. Through ribbons of smoke and haze, it seemed the dingy brown re-creation of a third-world slum had flooded the horizon. A sea of hazy brown rooftops, punctuated by whitish hills, stretched as far as she could see.
“Why are those hills that strange pale color?” Abby asked.
Paula made a face. “Those aren't hills. They're junk piles. Lagos has noâ”
She did not finish the sentence, for just as abruptly the plane leveled its exaggerated descent with a groan of engines, flaring off its approach for landing. The sudden shift and the pressure of the positive
g
's sent an army of needles through Abby's joints and midsection. Despite her continuing curiosity, she could only grit her teeth, close her eyes, and lean her head back against the couch.
There came a screech, and a jolt, and with a surge of cold reality came the sobering realization that
she was here
. Second thoughts, misgivings and all, she had irreversibly arrived on the next and scariest stage yet of her quest.
After the jet cycled through the familiar stages of reverse thrusting and hard braking, they began to taxi through a bewildering maze of aircraftâlumbering 747s, luxury business jets, and single-engine propeller planes scurrying haphazardly through the midst like a swarm of aeronautical gnats.
Despite her pain, Abby found herself fascinated by the crowd of planes, their sheer diversity of size and shapes, their exotic tail logos and country names, their deceptive appearance of taxiing without guidance. She peered intently through the portholes, her discomfort momentarily forgotten.
She gasped loudly, unbuckled her strap, and fell to her knees.
The two others rushed to her side and stared along with her. Out on the tarmac less than fifty yards away weaved three camouflage-green Hummers, their hulking outlines punctured by the barrels of upraised automatic weapons, circling around nose cones as they sped straight in their direction.
“Oh no!” Abby cried. “They're after us! They're following our plane!”
Lloyd's body tensed from head to foot and seemed to channel all its power to his eyes, which bore down on the pursuers with a calm intensity. The man seemed at home in this kind of situation. In fact, he looked more comfortable than he had appeared since Abby had met him.
“Abby, stay down,” Paula warned. “Just lie on the floor and take cover.”
“You too, Paula,” barked Lloyd, his eyes still riveted on the soldiers outside.
Abby couldn't help but take one final peek. Soldiersâor she had to assume they were real soldiers as they wore no coherent uniform, just flapping clothes of a roughly similar green hueâwere now waving their machine guns, signaling for the plane to stop.
Lloyd, now crouched down, pulled a large revolver from a previously unseen belt holster and began checking his ammo load. The cameraman swerved quickly between shots of each of them and the drama unfolding outside the plane.
The aircraft turned violently, tossing all three passengers to the left. The shadow of a towering 747 tail passed over them and left just as swiftly. An apparent near-miss. The wall of a huge hangar loomed on their left, and it seemed they had entered the airport version of a back alley.
Quite suddenly, they braked to a complete stop. The halt was so abrupt that the brakes screeched painfully and the entire plane slid forward on its wheels. It seemed to strain there, in a momentary shiver of inertia, before settling back again.
Lloyd stood up, his revolver now held against his chest, just as the main door whooshed open and filled the front of their cabin with harsh, menacing sunlight.
Abby heard the
click
of Lloyd's weapon being cocked. She searched his eyes for signs of fear, but saw only a resolute focus on what lay ahead.
Through the doorway came angry-sounding, high-pitched shouts. Orders in an unknown tongue. The pilot came walking out of the cockpit, a reassuring hand held out in front of him. “Please don't worry, folks,” he said in a tone which, despite being professionally warm and personable, did nothing to reassure Abby. “This seems to be our welcoming party.” His dark-blazered shape disappeared out that terrifying doorway.
Abby turned to Paula. “What does he mean?”
The younger woman roused herself into a state of uncertainty. “I'm not sure. Except that the staff back home was talking aboutâ”
“Come on out!” came a clipped, imperious shout in thickly accented English. “Carefully!”
Lloyd tucked the gun behind the back of his belt and stepped forward into the light.
Cowering as far away from the opening as she could, Abby whispered a prayer. “God, surely this can't be it! Could I have misread you so badly that it all ends here, on the backside of a tarmac before we've even started? Please . . . please don't let this be it, Lord. Rescue us. . . .”
Paula, now crouched in the exit, motioned for Abby to follow her. The bleakness in her eyes could easily have matched that of Anne Boleyn on her way up the steps to be beheaded.
“You sure?” Abby asked tentatively.
Paula did not reply. Nevertheless, Abby turned and proceeded to follow her downward. She heard no gunfire.
Has to be a good sign
, she told herself.
Blinking in the glare, she glanced down and focused on keeping her footing on the metal steps poised midway between light and shadow. Feeling solid ground at last under her final step, she ventured a look upward.
The first thing she saw were the gleaming, intent eyes of a tall black man in impeccable green camouflage, staring at her. He stood above the windshield of an open-air Humvee, surrounded by four others crammed with nearly a dozen Nigerian soldiers. All of them staring straight at her.
Abby stepped forward. She felt her free hand, the one not being held by Lloyd for stability, creep upward in a gesture of submission.
She tried not to look at the gleaming gun barrels, the cold gazes behind them, or feel the menace they seemed to exude. She tried to force her mouth into a smile. Normal airport noise engulfed her: a taxiing jetliner somewhere behind her whined loudly on its way past. She breathed in deeply. The air was stifling, hot and humid. Her nostrils filled with the smell of jet fuel and a background bouquet of sea spray and rotting trash.
Can a person smell danger?
she asked herself. So often she had heard of a dog smelling danger. Now she stood in a situation where she could almost discern its acrid scent, weaving faintly among all the others.
The tall soldier leaped from the Humvee and swaggered toward her. As he approached, she saw that he truly was an officer of consequence: a garish ribbon adorned his front pocket and his shoulder bore an epaulet gleaming with a golden eagle and two stars.
“You Abby Sherman?” he asked with accented voice.
She nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said.
“And
this
man?” he asked derisively, looking at the cameraman. “This, we cannot have. I will not allow it.”
“Sir, his presence was one of the chief conditions of your . . . retainer. Please verify that with your people, because our staff was quite explicit about that.”
The officer stepped forward in front of the lens. The cameraman backed up, both out of necessity and, it seemed, self-preservation.
After brooding for a moment, the officer relaxed his posture and turned back around. “Welcome to Nigeria, Mizz Sherman. I am Colonel Anthony Shawkey,” he said. She thought she discerned a softening in his voice. “Colonel Shawkey, for short. I am to be your protector during your sojourn in our country.”
She cocked her head in surprise.
Protector?
Paula stepped forward and whispered into her ear. “I was starting to tell you when we went into our final descent. It's a fairly common practice for high-profile visitors to employ, let's say, highly placed escorts to ensure safety. This seems to be our
ride
.”
Struggling to process such an abrupt reversal in her expectations, Abby nodded numbly and shook the colonel's proffered hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Colonel,” she said after regaining her senses. “I am most grateful that you and your men are on our side.”
At that, the colonel threw his head back and launched an explosive laugh into the sky. He turned and walked back to his Humvee, paused beside it and held out his hand. A small brown arm reached out and grasped his.
The arm was attached, as the next moment revealed, to a diminutive African woman in her sixties who stepped gingerly from the vehicle and came forward. From this distance, the most remarkable thing about her was her dress. A resplendent wrap of emerald green silk crowned her head, but her exit revealed the garment's full glory. A flowing robe with the same iridescent sheen folded neatly over her small shoulders and encircled her tiny frame, ending with a flourish just above a pair of matching leather sandals.
Abby gaped unashamedly as the woman approached. Between the splendor of the old woman's clothing and the radiance of her countenance, the young American was unsure if she had ever seen someone so striking. Finally the two stood face-to-face. Close proximity only confirmed the older woman's beauty; her smile seemed to glow from a place deep inside her.
“Sister Abigail,” the woman said as she lifted both of her arms for an embrace.
“Yes, and you are, ma'am?” Abby answered, utterly befuddled.
The smile only widened. “Sister Abedago, at your service. Your Nigerian brothers and sisters have all heard and been inspired by your story. And now, for you to choose coming here at this hour, with nearly the whole world concerned with your whereaboutsâwe are all overwhelmed. That's why I have been sent by the Believers Gathering to greet you in the name of our Lord and invite you to return, along with our brother the colonel here, to our assembly grounds.”
The old woman's hands ventured closer, and Abby gave herself to a warm hug, careful not to rumple the lady's elaborate wrappings.
Suddenly, Abby remembered. She pulled back and asked the question she'd come here to answer. “Sister, have you ever heard the word
Iya Agba
?”
The older woman's expression underwent a fascinating series of reactions upon her hearing the word. First came abject surprise, manifested by a sudden relaxing of her facial muscles and a slight stare. Then bemusement, along with a faint smile. And finally, her guarded reply.
“Yes, I have, my dear,” she said in a near whisper. “And I will tell you all I can when the time is rightâ”
From overhead came the thunderous interruption of chopping helicopter blades.
Without warning, the world began to swirl menacingly around Abby. Something in her knees gave out. The sight of the soldiers fell away from her. Mortified, she felt herself slump forward into Sister Abedago's bosom, precisely where she didn't want to end up. Then, gratefully, she felt arms behind her, pulling her up and away.